Paint me Particular
by viva0los0sacapuntas
Summary: a little PWP about Dean and Percy, written in response to a request on livejournal : Dean/Percy, Percy begs. This aint an 'M' for no reason. Slash like a mofo.


Percy Weasley could only stare dumb-founded and shocked at the sight before him. The painting of him portrayed a rare moment of vulnerability, his morning routine, nursing a cup of black coffee (one of the many things Dean had introduced him to) as he gazed out the kitchen window, absently smiling at what may have been a satisfying night (which was probably true, seeing as Dean often got owls from his lover every hour on the hour starting at noon, confessing '_I know that this is terribly unprofessional, but I cannot accomplish any more at my desk, knowing you are at home in your studio… if you have any plans for this evening, I wonder if you could cancel them, if you could use me as a canvas, your tongue as a paintbrush-)_ or some other trivial reason.

"D-Dean?" Embarrassed at the fact he could hardly get his throat to function, Percy felt the tips of his ears singe.

"Yes?"

"This—you know I love _all _of your work," and this was true, Percy had adored every portrait of smiling children with their beloved pets, every detailed backyard scene inspired by the frequent barbecues at The Burrow, every sketch of his first little brothers, back from when they were at Hogwarts, cavorting in a corner. No one else had ever been able to catch Fred and George like Dean had, separate yet alike, the glint of mischief and mirth apparent in their eyes.

"It's just… you've never done any of _me_ before." For a second, Percy thought he would cry, his throat closing up as he studied the painting closer still, taking in the curve of his fingers around the chipped West Ham mug that he'd deemed his own when Dean moved in, the tilt of his head and the detail in the saffron curls that were parted severely to the side, their unruly springiness somehow rendered as barely restrained, the shadow beneath the curve of his jaw, the particular way his lips were parted, as if he was about to call out for something, or rather, some_one_.

As he continued to scrutinize, something _clicked_.

It was clear in the way Dean had charmed the painting, to occasionally cast his lashes down and blush before gazing back out of the window.

It was written in the way that Dean had included the thin, nearly weightless silver band around his left wrist, given to him by the very first boy he ever loved,-ever kissed-who grew to be in the same house(chanting 'Go, _Go_ GRYFFINDOR!), and then in a separate world.

It was painstakingly obvious when he remembered their bedroom, where Dean had so faithfully comforted Percy after being wrenched through the compression of his life's tragedies, starting with trembling lips pressed to his as Charlie refrained from packing for Romania to console a desolate Percy, to the loneliness that had wracked his bones all those years without communication with his family—culminating with the death of his most-exasperating brother, the one whose laugh rang loudest, whose brilliant mind was undeniable.

Dean was in love with him.

Two Years Earlier

Dean Thomas willed himself not to burst as he gazed at the site before him. From his place at the foot of the bed, the sight of Percy Weasley's wrists bound above his head-by his spotless Gryffindor ties—his cock hard and leaking, the head angrily red, was a fulfilment of every fantasy he hadn't even known he had. The hiss that greeted Dean's ears as he allowed his fingers to caress the silky insides of pale thighs set him aflame, as did the gasp that escaped kiss-swollen lips.

He crawled up Percy's body swiftly, both of them moaning as their cocks slid together in a frantic rhythm, nudging coarse ebony curls as well as the smooth pale skin over tantalizing hipbones. Lapping at that mouth which was so often pursed in concentration, Dean catalogued the unique taste of slick lips, a bit like fresh peaches, sweet and intoxicating. It was the fluttering of dark lashes though, that did him in. With those distinctive crimson curls stark against the deep brown of his sheets, Percy looked like a debauched angel, all soft whimpers and high cheekbones, a bone structure that begged to be painted.

"You were never this hot as Head Boy," he managed to gasp out before shuddering long and hard, transfixed by the scrabbling of slender fingers at the posts of the headboard.

When Dean woke up the next morning, it was too cold; his empty sheets felt foreign as he grasped at fragments of what _must_ have been a dream, and a small note on his bathroom mirror.

_Had to leave early, called in for work—I've left you my ties, do try not to muss them_

_P_

And the note was so very _Percy_, even the slightly-clipped warning that Dean knew probably inspired a flush in the freckled man, one that crept down his long neck and seeped into the tops of his shoulders, bleeding over his freckled, he smooth skin at the nape of his neck which smelled of soap and paper, like education and denied sexuality…

They continued to meet, each time Percy was restrained, be that due to the non-chafing pair of cuffs that George had given him as a gag gift for his first Christmas back at home, or the wide grip of Dean's hands, one of which could swallow both of Percy's nimble wrists.

Never once did Percy ask to be released.

Not when Dean could _feel_ the trembling of those lovely thighs as he slurped at the head of that lovely cock, then marvelled at the fluttering pulse his fingers found inside of a clenching heat.

Not when those same fingers wrapped gently around Percy's throat, lips pressed to his temple as he was fucked on all fours, his narrow hips snapping back, arms giving way as he began to keen, colours vibrant, then bleeding into black before he came so hard he passed out for a good three minutes.

Not when Dean cast a discreet sticking charm on Percy's hands as he leaned against his desk after-hours (which was how most of their dates began, Dean coercing the workaholic with promises of sex and peaches for breakfast) and proceeded to rile him so with that tongue, lapping at the warm crevice and the little wrinkle of his entrance. Dean had never seen anything quite that erotic—the clash between Percy's dark grey trousers and crisp white dress shirt, the bared buttocks between the two, a rounded swell of ivory as Percy became a whimpering moaning thing that bucked into his fist before spurting long jets over his now-empty memo tray.

Percy didn't want to be let go.

Not until Dean had straddled his chest on a cool summer night, the breeze occasionally wafting in, carrying the scent of stale sunshine and tightening the pink buds of Percy's nipples. How he managed not to come all over that near-angelic face, Dean did not know, but he didn't, not even as he took hold of his cock and traced the leaking head around Percy's lips, whispering to him that if he wanted to _suckle_ at it, he would have to be released from his bonds. The black leather of the belts that held his wrists towards each bedpost was slightly cool against his overheated skin.

Percy merely bucked his hips fruitlessly and tried to catch the head of the leaking cock between his hot spit-slick lips, but Dean would have none of it.

"I free you, or I leave you."

"You don't mean that." Percy hardly recognized his voice, that breathy_desperate_**moaning** thing, sounding wanton and insatiable was _him?_

"I do." While Dean was definitely not against a nice hard fuck, the thought that maybe Percy always felt trapped, always captive during their encounters didn't bode well with the artist.

Percy looked down, staring straight at the base of a thick cock that he'd been drooling over for many more years than would be deemed acceptable. The shadows his eyelashes cut against his cheeks struck Dean with clarity similar to being awakened by a magnificent tolling bell.

"I would like to be released, Dean." The blush that stained those cheeks was delicious.

"You'll have to do better than that, Perce."

"I just want to suck your _cock_." He fluttered those deceptive eyelashes and sweet Merlin's balls didn't he look like sin with a cock resting against his lower lip. Dean smeared a pearly droplet into the middle of it, catching a glimpse of those straight white teeth.

"I've never wanted anything more than I want the weight of your shaft on my tongue. Please…"

"Getting closer." Dean slipped the head of his cock into the surprised 'o' of Percy's mouth for a quick second. It was heaven.

"Did you know you taste of sweat and canvas? I want to know if you taste that way everywhere, even behind your ears, inside your elbows, beneath your ribs. Dean, I want that so badly, that I would let you keep me from coming, I'd let those long artistic fingers wrap around my cock until it was so swollen I could hardly move because sucking you would be so—" The breeze rolled through, stirring the air which smelled of sex and revelation.

"So what, sweetheart?" The endearment rolled form Dean's tongue as he unbuckled one of the belts holding Percy in place.

"So fucking _this_." And Percy's free hand was scrabbling at Dean's hip, steadying the cock as he practically swallowed it, neither of them lasting long because Percy's mouth was a piece of the goddamned heavens, and Deans fingers kept Percy bottled up until his eyes rolled back in his head, his shouts hoarse with come and liberation.

A week after that, they met again, in a pub in Muggle London, the back booth where Percy lit up fags and let them rest between his fingers as if he was born to do it, causing Dean to wank himself under the table at his stories about Charlie and heir forays into the art of binding.

"I couldn't function when he went to Romania." Percy recalls his despair, his turning to Oliver Wood who, for all his promises to stay together 'even if we have to elope' had cheated on him with a faceless groupie. The rage that surges in Dean's chest is hardly new, but this is an unexpected context: sure, plenty of people have gone through break-ups, but Percy, sitting there with those long legs and that swollen bottom lip, a mouth that looks so sweet stretched around his cock, a quiet thoroughness that causes him to restock Dean's paint trays and remind him w hat kinds of charcoal work best for which kinds of paper… Percy hasn't gone through break-ups. Percy has just _been_ broken-up.

So they begin to heal, Dean teaches Percy to ask, to tease, and to deny.

He's best at denying, stripping gracefully and lowering himself in the centre of the bed, then rolling away and dodging into the library as soon as Dean sets forth to crawl over him. He's even better at it with his glasses on, looking even more naked with those horned frames as he is mesmerized by his pale cock sliding between the mocha of Dean's lips.

But his real place is begging, and Dean makes sure he never forgets that.

Not when Dean fingers those curls as lips grip his cock with come-guzzling intentions, not when they return home from their first dinner at The Burrow as an item, Percy on his knees in nothing but one of Dean's old West Ham jerseys, fingers shaking as he begs and pleads then _devours_ the cock that spills down his throat.

"Don't tell me you love me," Percy whispers when Dean had thought he was sleeping. Eyelashes flutter against his chest.

"What do I do then?"

"Show me."

The next morning, Dean woke up and began to paint.


End file.
